A/N: Hey, I would like to say thank you for sticking around and supporting this story. It means the world to me...
I've always been an introverted person who is guarded, wary of letting people in; let alone see what I write. I'm slowly learning how to openly be myself, even if it means facing criticism or getting hurt at some point.
Feeling hurt is a necessary part of life- it humanizes us, and we can't avoid it no matter how hard we may try. I'm not condoning that we should dwell on pain, but rather, don't push away the feeling before learning why you feel the way that you do. Experience it and grow because of it. The more you push it away, the worse it becomes, and then you're left as a shell.
That's where I was before I started writing this fic. I was a void, actively numbing myself to whatever pain tried to come my way until I was almost empty. Starting this fic was my last ditch effort to wake up; write through the pain of dealing with things (some of which are similar to what's happening in this book), and learn to be in the moment again. The fact that I get to do it through South Park characters, to me, is an amazing feeling. I love the show and I love this fandom.
But I digress, so I won't bear my guts onto y'all anymore.
Reading what you have commented has filled my heart with insurmountable joy that I can't begin to describe. Just the fact that people are even reading this blows my mind.
So, thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Love,
Kyle, Your Local Garbage Gay
…
Eric,
You'll probably try to have me killed once you read this letter, but I don't care. You took it too far this time. If that were even possible. I know you'll aim to push further.
Stan's body is here, but something in my gut tells me that a sinister presence is here, and there's more to this than just a corpse. You're behind everything, aren't you?
The atmosphere has changed.
I've been seeing spirits everywhere I go. Some spirits I haven't seen in years. But I've yet to see Stan's, which is strange because I feel as though I should.
You've been fucking with things.
You've been fucking with us like a puppet master, safe inside your crazy cell.
I should have never told you about me and where I come from.
If I had known you would take advantage of it, I would have killed you right then and there by that tree.
But I felt sorry for you. You didn't understand what you were seeing and I gave you pity though you didn't deserve it.
Pity is often a privileged feeling… you feel pity for those less fortunate than you. Yet somehow I, the poor kid with the fucked up family, felt sorry for you.
You have no idea what you're doing. You have to be cautious when you get involved with demonic entities. Or just not get involved at all. I was born into all that mess, but you… you just inserted yourself into a world you have no right being in.
They're going to get tired of you. These creatures need strong hosts and once they drain you, they'll move on to others.
I'm going to find out what really happened to Stan, and when I do, however many feet of cinder block is keeping you sheltered won't stop me from coming for you. Consider your days numbered, asshole.
I'm done feeling sorry for you.
Kenny
It wasn't until after he sent it that he figured any mail to inmates would be read before it was actually delivered, but the content was so crazy, he supposed they would dismiss it as two loonies that don't have anything better to write each other about.
The worst part was that whoever would be assigned to read that letter would know about Stan. A tragedy like his was bound to be dealt out like a deck of playing cards, shuffled into the hands of the media for them to pick and choose which cards they wanted to play.
Flowers and balloons piled onto the Marsh's lawn. Flowers were left for Kyle too, but he couldn't look at them. Day by day, the petals turned inward, brown, dried out, left for dead.
One morning when he went over to the Broflovski house, there was a small, Raggedy Andy doll with a noose around its neck and a note that read: "Homos burn in Hell." With shaking hands, he picked it up from the doorstep and threw it into the street, knowing eventually someone would run it over. He never told Kyle.
Sending this letter to Cartman was the coward's way of confronting the issue and Kenny knew it. He also knew some of this was his fault. But the thought of coming out saying everything that needed to be said outright terrified him; he didn't feel as if he were strong enough or smart enough to articulate in person. Hell, he didn't think he did it well in the letter either.
The best thing he knew- the only thing he knew- was how to kill.
…
June 10, 2017
The Morning of Stan's Funeral
5:13 a.m.
Kyle…
The whisper caressed his neck and traveled up his jawline.
Kyle…
Grazing his ear, it caused him to shudder.
"Stan, pick up the phone," he mumbled while coming to, reaching out to turn on the bedside lamp.
He still wore the ring.
He wished he could tell people that he got engaged. He wished that every time he looked down, he wasn't reminded that he was an asshole. All the parents knew what happened because he had to give a full report to the police, and they continually reminded him that it wasn't his fault. Stan is an adult and he made a decision, they said. Kyle felt like he was swallowing acid. He knew it was the sick part of Stan's brain that made that decision, not Stan. The real Stan, who lit up a room every time he walked in, that's who he really was. Everyone loved him.
The Real Stan, he reminded everyone who asked about it, The Real Stan Would Have Fought.
Kyle opened his eyes, reached over the Butcher Babies shirt, and turned on the lamp. The clothes were still there, slightly tousled from his movement. He had only slept for about an hour and his phone had Stan's contact information lit up on the screen. He locked it and pushed it away.
At some point during his dreaming, he imagined Stan picking up the phone and telling him he was okay, he had just run away to Las Vegas or Ann Arbor or Dallas and hated him. But he was okay. Okay would be better than dead.
The corner of the fitted sheet had become loose during Kyle's tossing and turning. He went to pull it back over the mattress but a dark spot peeked out. Gingerly, he pulled the sheet back to reveal more. Blood stains. Tons of it. Some darker than others and each one had a different shape.
Kyle slapped a hand over his mouth, Stan…
All the times he didn't know about was freshly displayed for him. It made him nauseous.
And Stan wasn't there to be confronted about it. Stan wasn't there to be held, to be talked to softly, to be kissed on the head. Not unless I just crawl into the coffin with him.
For Kyle, it was hard to know what was a nightmare and what was real life anymore.
He reached into his cistern of memories and reeled in a particularly fuzzy one. Parts of it were blocked out, not from time, but from trauma.
(you deserve to be here just as much as anyone else stan
probably even more so than other people)
Kyle had found Stan in his bathroom, on the floor, curled around the base of the toilet, unconscious. When Kyle moved him onto his back, he saw the arm. The oval cut with blood seeping into the tile grout. Stan's face was a shocking pale, as were his lips.
But he was breathing. Not very strongly, but breathing.
(o god thisisit thisisit he's gonna bleed out and be gone this time o god o god stan don't leave me)
Stan's foot twitched a little. His eyes opened. He saw Kyle's red face, bloated with tears, and tried to get up with no success.
He told Kyle later on that it was a new blade- clean but sharper than anything he had used in the past. Real quick, he told himself, I'll just do a quick one.
It was fast, but he had placed too much pressure and sliced off too much skin, revealing the thin, white tissue underneath. He could see inside himself and it made him sick. The area filled with blood; convinced that he would actually bleed out this time, Stan started hyperventilating. He ran it under cold water but the blood kept coming.
(ok ok o k don't panic)
He became dizzy and wobbled backward, his breath even more frantic.
He didn't even feel it when he blacked out, fell against the side of the tub, and collapsed by the toilet.
(is this how it's gonna be when i die)
Kyle helped Stan get up. He put an arm around him and put him in his bed.
"It sounds like there's sand pouring out of my ears," Stan said quietly.
Not exactly a stranger to passing out and waking up with static or screeching in his ears, all Kyle said was "I'm sorry." He laid his head on Stan's chest and listened to his fluttering heartbeat become steady. He wished he could hear his heartbeat now.
He sat back up and looked at Stan, "Just keep breathing. You'll be okay."
Stan just looked up at the ceiling. He couldn't look at the way Kyle was looking at him. Of course, Kyle read into it for what it was.
"That was way too close this time, Stan-"
"-you know you would be better off without me."
(o god not this again, you know what stan, sometimes i)
"That's not true and you know it," Kyle said sternly. Though he wondered if it was the other way around. If somehow, someway, he was making Stan like this.
(no no)
"You can do better than me. You deserve better."
"No offense, but you don't get to tell me what I deserve. And you certainly don't get to tell me who to love."
Silence.
Kyle continued: "I love you, Stan. But this," he put a hand on Stan's arm, being careful not to touch the wound, "This isn't you."
"Yes, it is Kyle. I'm depressed all the fucking time."
"Stan… it's something that you have. It's not who you are."
Silence again.
"When you look at me," Kyle said, "Do you just see my anxiety?"
"No, I see my boyfriend."
"Exactly. It's the same for me. I don't look at you and see depression. I see you, Stan. I see my boyfriend, my best friend. Gifted and smart, funny, kind, and selfless." He wrapped his hand in his own and kissed it and cupped it in his own, keeping the fingers warm. "We can fight this together. Whatever it takes to survive. I know you can fight this."
Stan blinked slowly like a tired cat, looking at Kyle with blurred vision. A calming flare enticed him, and he acknowledged it with a grimace. He knew it was the dopamine taking over- the relief of doing the thing you're addicted to and getting it over with.
"I'm sorry, Kyle."
Usually, Kyle would ask him why he was apologizing, but he knew that Stan just wanted to be reassured.
(dont press just understand)
"You don't have to apologize, Stan. I know you're hurting. And I'm not going to leave your side."
Minutes later, Stan fell asleep. The wound had stopped bleeding rather quickly; Kyle wondered if his body had gotten used to it, but quickly dismissed the idea of normalizing it, even on a biology level.
He looked around the carpet and saw the box cutter tossed at an angle. He picked it up, folded it, and put it in his pocket. Later on, he would dispose of it, along with anything else sharp that he found in the bedroom. He laid back down next to a sleeping Stan, put an arm around his waist and pulled him closer, kissed his forehead.
"Whatever it takes," he said to himself.
Gripping on Stan's clothes, in the present with memory peeking in an out of his mind, he whispered over and over again:
(my faultmy fault myfault my fault my fucking fault i fucked up i lost him i didnt try hard enough i should have known)
"It's all my fault…"
…
I am a harried cardboard person.
I want too much
I say too much
I feel too much
But I'm flat.
-found on a sticky note in Stan Marsh's dresser drawer (March 3, 2015)
…
Kyle climbed into his own window to see a familiar figure bunched up on his bed.
At the sound of his brother tumbling in, Ike immediately sat up, hair askew, and squinted at him.
"Where the fuck were you?" he asked hoarsely.
The image of Stan's blood-stained mattress was burned into his brain, "Nowhere. I forgot my cigarettes," he said, looking around on his desk, "What the fuck are you doing in my bed?"
Ike just shrugged, "Are you gonna leave again?"
"Yeah, there's no way I can go to sleep," he scooped up the familiar white and teal package, "I'm going for a walk. I'll see you in an hour or so."
Tossing the sheets over, Ike grumbled: "I'm coming with you."
"No, no, stay here and sleep. It's too dark out there."
"So? With your pale ass around I'm sure we'll see just fine. You're a goddamn night light."
He rose and pulled on Terence and Philip slippers that used to belong to Kyle. In what little illumination they had, Kyle could also tell that he had on his Duran Duran shirt, but he wasn't about to say anything.
Ike was the only one who still talked Kyle like he was his brother and not a fragile, glass dove like everyone else was at the moment. Good intentions were abounding, but he loved Ike's realness.
"Hey, Ike?"
"What?"
"Thanks for being cool."
"Uh, you're welcome?"
"You know what I mean, dude. Don't act like you don't."
Ike joined his brother at the window, "Well, I… you know/"
"I know. And I wanted you to know that I know."
Ike rolled his eyes and smiled; they both let out an exhale before climbing out of the window.
When it's dark in South Park, it's the most extreme dark with hardly any streetlights and the sky black. Kyle had dark thoughts that involved him tripping as soon as a car came and his head falling prey to the tire. He pushed it out of his mind be never stopped walking at night or in the early morning.
Some nights, the cloudless nights, you could see all the stars. No light pollution, just endless silver dots. Those were the best nights.
In the past, the three of them: Kyle, Stan, and Kenny would climb on the McCormick's roof and gaze at them, trying their best to find constellations (Kyle always found the most), or make-up new ones (Kenny always found the phallic ones), try to find shapes they could name after themselves or someone else (Stan saw one that looked like a square with dog ears and named it Sparky).
Even with his brother walking beside him, Kyle caught himself look up at them, thinking: (i want to go over the stars).
Getting closer to 6 am, and the two brothers watched as the sun slowly rose, casting their shadows in front of them. The woods around Stark's Pond had grown rapidly since they were kids. It was the same woods Kenny had died in when he was a kid, but no one except him and the inmate knew; the last person he wanted to know.
Over the years, the town added more and more to the already uneven terrain, creating gardens and hiking trails, a small town that was trying too hard.
"Something is bothering me about all this," Ike said suddenly.
"What isn't there to be bothered by?" Kyle replied, silently wishing that the conversation wasn't happening. That none of this was happening.
"Why… Why did it take them so long to find Stan?"
"The woods are pretty big now…"
"Yeah but still… five weeks though? Something isn't adding up."
Kyle swallowed hard, looked down at his toes for a moment before the smell of pine overtook him.
"Sorry," Ike quietly said.
"It's okay," Kyle felt his shoulders tense up, and he lit a cigarette, the smell of it disturbing the atmosphere of the birches and weeping willows.
"I wish you would quit," Ike blurted, "You breathe in those things more than actual air now."
"I'm trying… it's not easy." He told Ike this every time.
One of the paths bore a large, wooden sign before it started, blaring red lettering:
THINGS TO KNOW BEFORE HIKING THE RIVER TRAIL
Rugged terrain- high degree of difficulty
4 miles in length- average time: 2 ½ hours
No cell phone service- tell someone where you're going
Numerous low areas- you will get muddy
Carry your own drinking water
Poison ivy grows along the trail
BE SAFE - HAVE FUN
Underneath, a smaller sign:
PORTIONS OF TRAIL ARE UNDER WATER
"I've walked this path before," putting his fists in his pockets, he walked ahead of Kyle, "it's really not that bad."
"No cell service though…"
"You're right, we should tell someone where we're going," he dramatically turned in a circle, until he faced Kyle again, "Kyle, I'm going on this super creepy hiking trail, and I'll get muddy. I just wanted to tell you."
"Okay, smartass," Kyle followed his little brother, "But we're not walking the whole thing. Just a little and then we're coming right back. We can't be late for the… for the funeral."
He wished they didn't have to go.
…
He wished he didn't have to go.
Kenny McCormick, 18 years old, hating himself, hating how bloodshot his eyes looked in the mirror, splashed his tired face with cold water.
The night before he had crawled into his window, bleeding from the chest. He lied on the carpet and dug out the bullet with trembling fingers, angry that he was going to die again, angry he would have to patch up the skin-tight suit again, angriest that he wasn't going to be strong enough to pull himself into bed to make it look like he was just sleeping; and Karen would probably see him bleeding out on the floor, again.
"I can't do this anymore," he said to his reflection. Every hit, every bullet, every stab- they took something out of him.
Splatters of bright red blood sprayed into the sink as he coughed.
(fuck i think im dying like really dying)
…
The sign wasn't lying. Portions were underwater and the boys got muddy. Smelling the freshly blooming flowers made Kyle sneeze and his eyes itch. It seemed like every year his allergies became worse and worse, which disappointed him because he loved flowers, especially daisies but never told anyone. A life of stocking up on allergy medication was before him, and the thought of having an entire life ahead of him suddenly seized him.
He still had an entire life ahead of him, and he would be alone.
He stopped walking.
"What's wrong?" Ike called back over his shoulder.
The thought of asking Ike to throw him down the hill to be eaten by stray animals like Jezebel popped up. He bit his lip, "Nothing. Just thinking too much. We should probably head back, Ike. I need to shower."
Ike stood on the edge of the nearby hill and peered down to the watery abyss. "Damn, it's really flooded," he commented.
"Yeah, we need to go," Kyle glanced at his phone for the time. It was 7:27, "Mom and Dad are probably up now-"
A hissing sound came from his right.
Large and sauntering toward him, a raccoon appeared, its claws digging into the soil.
"Oh no, FUCK no," Kyle started backing away, "No, fuck that shit, no, no fucking way."
Suddenly he was 12 years old again, throwing his arms over his face.
Ike turned around, "Just kick it in the head-" The raccoon turned and hissed at Ike, "god damn that thing is huge." Ike lifted a knee to punt it, but slipped on the mud, and fell backward down the hill. The raccoon ran away at the sound of Ike's screaming.
Kyle lunged to the edge to see his 13-year old brother at the bottom, trying to get up, his pants soaked with river water.
"Holy shit, Ike, are you okay?!"
Ike stood up and flashed him a thumbs up, "Yeah, it's not that steep. I think I just-"
With the velocity of a broken elevator, Ike's feet suddenly sunk into the earth. Frantically he swung his torso around, jerking his legs, trying to escape, "Kyle!"
"I'm coming!" Kyle ran down, careful not to trip, grabbed onto a low-hanging tree branch and reached for him. Ike was already waist-deep, too far to even touch hands. Kyle inched a little further, almost falling in himself. Still no reach. With one shoulder he shrugged off his jacket and threw it around the branch. Grabbing the end of the sleeves like a handle, he skidded more toward Ike, whose head was now underwater, his tiny freckled hand reaching out. Kyle slapped his palm into Ike's and forcefully pulled him out; choking and spitting up soil and water.
"I got you, I got you, you're okay," Kyle sat them both back up against the bank, arm around him.
…
"What the fuck were you thinking, Kyle? Oh, that's right, you weren't. There was a time, Kyle, when you used to use your brain. I guess that's just not the case with you anymore."
It was 8 am and Gerald had Kyle cornered in the living room, still in his bathrobe. Ike and Kyle's clothes were both tattered and earthy- Ike completely soaked.
Kyle maintained eye contact with his father as he spat insults at his eldest son. Kyle had learned time and time again to never look away from him when he was yelling, and he wasn't about to sulk away this time either.
"You could have gotten Ike killed." He forcefully shoved an open palm into Kyle's chest, knocking him back into the wall. Still, Kyle kept solemn silence.
"Dad! Stop! It was an accident!" Ike cried. Sheila ran around the corner with blankets; Ike grabbed at her elbow, "Mom! Tell Dad it was an accident! Please!"
Gerald turned around to look at Ike, "Yes, it was an accident, but it was a preventable accident."
Sheila reached around and tossed a blanket to a hesitant Kyle. He didn't realize how badly he had been shivering until he wrapped it around himself.
"Gerald, can you tone it down? I'm pretty sure you're waking up the whole neighborhood," she drew Ike close to her. Mud was drying in his hair.
"It's okay, Mom," Kyle piped up, he couldn't stop himself. It was happening. He was going to stick up for himself again, "We may as well let everyone know what really goes on in this house."
Gerald snapped his head back over to him, "You shut the fuck up."
"Gerald!"
"No, Sheila, I'm tired of this," he growled, "Another word out of your faggy little mouth and I'm shoving your skull through this wall."
Kyle started grinding his teeth. He wanted so badly to retort, to really let him have it. The thought of punching his own father in the face seeped into his mind.
Sheila, shaking with rage, spoke quietly, scarily: "Gerald. We agreed… You promised me. You promised me that would stop talking to Kyle like that. You promised me."
"You promised all of us," Ike added, "but that's just like you to go back on your word."
"Ike, you two shouldn't have been out there-"
"No, we shouldn't have, but HELLO, can we talk about the fact that there's a giant sinkhole that someone else could walk into?! Kyle saved my life-"
"Ike-"
"We need to call the police before someone drowns in that fucking hell pit-"
"Ike, language!" Sheila warned.
"We'll call the cops, but right now I'm concerned with the fact that this one," he pointed a finger in Kyle's face, "almost got my son killed."
Kyle scoffed, "Am I not your son, too?"
Gerald turned red in the ears, "You used to act like my kid. But I don't know you anymore. Now, you're just some weird skin puppet that takes up space in my house. And you almost added to the body count today."
Ike and Sheila started to make sounds of protest but Gerald shushed them.
"Your irresponsibility could've wrecked everything for this family," he said.
"What about your irresponsibility?" Kyle spat, "What about all the times you put our family in danger because you're a selfish prick-"
He was cut off by Gerald's rough hand across his cheek. Kyle winced, cupped his face, leveling his gaze at his seething father.
"You have no right to talk to me like that, I am your father"
"You used to act like my father."
Gerald was about to raise a hand again before Sheila pulled on him, "That's enough! Don't you dare lay another hand on my child!"
They continued to squabble. Kyle met Ike's shivering gaze and mouthed it's okay. Ike pursed his lips and shook his head, no, it's not okay.
"-we've been nothing but supportive and patient for you these past weeks, Kyle," Gerald was addressing him again, "And you can't even give us a 'thank you'."
"Mom has been supportive and patient, you've just stood in the background because you're a fucking coward."
Gerald pushed Kyle once again into the wall, hitting the back of his head. Kyle grimaced, threw the blanket off his shoulders, grabbed his father by the shoulders and headbutt him with all the raging strength he had left. Gerald fell back, crumpled to the floor, holding his nose and groaning. Kyle's head throbbed, making him dizzy, and he didn't care. He headed for the front door.
"Kyle!" His mother yelled after him. But he couldn't hear her.
…
Sharon Marsh opened the door, gasping when she saw a battered Kyle on her doorstep, his hand covering his face.
"Mrs. Marsh, can I trouble you for an ice pack?" He asked through clenched teeth.
"Again? You poor thing," she kept her attention on Kyle, ignoring all the flowers and posters on her lawn, "Yes, of course, sweetheart, come in."
She took her would have been son-in-law's arm and brought him inside.
Notes:
"Destroyer" by Phantogram- watch?v=grj0tCEcX94
"Pro Memoria" by Ghost- watch?v=NPLFQpApMAg
"Grim Sleeper" by Butcher Babies- watch?v=XSF07eShIOU
"Monstrance Clock" by Ghost- watch?v=6oa_nbgE8M8
"Life Eternal" by Ghost- watch?v=LU6ZN_CJICo
"The Cleansing" by Butcher Babies-
watch?v=GOombldMdUU
"Heart Heart Head" by Meg Myers- watch?v=Xvh_0CuMMtM
IG: .sp
Tumblr: kylevasquezsblog